Winterling

by Sarah Prineas

  She felt a bump on her shoulder—Rook’s head bumping her—and then his hand slipped from the mane.

  Fer half turned to see him sliding sideways off the horse’s back, his head lowered. “Rook!” she shouted. His head came up and he flung out a hand, but he slipped further. Dark, empty space yawned below, waiting to swallow him up. Holding the mane with one hand, Fer reached down and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, dragging him back onto the horse. She brought his limp arm around and closed his cold fingers on the mane. “Hold on!” she shouted, her words whipped away by the wind. His head bumped against her back again and his fingers loosened.

  She glanced over her shoulder. His eyes were closed, his face set and pale. The jolting must have hurt his wolf bites. He couldn’t hold on anymore.

  “Hold on to me!” she shouted, and spit strands of the mane out of her mouth. She reached back and brought each of his arms around so he was holding on to her waist. She, in turn, would keep them on the horse.

  “Just hold on,” she told herself. She bent lower over the horse’s neck, trying to find the balance again. Rook’s arms stayed wrapped around her waist, his head resting against her shoulder.

  Fer’s arms and shoulders felt the strain from gripping the mane so tightly. On and on the horse ran through the empty night. Cramps set into her fingers. Her eyes ran with tears, but she didn’t dare loose her grip on the mane to wipe them. The muscles in her legs burned.

  At last the horse slowed. The darkness turned pearly white, as if they were running inside a cloud. Around them the other riders were dark shadows that ran swiftly, but silently. Then they faded away into the whiteness. The horse slowed even more, and the wind died, and then, with a jolt, the horse’s hooves hit the ground and they were trot-walking through an empty white field. Snow, Fer realized. The horse stumbled to a stop and stood with its head down, blowing hard.

  Rook’s arms loosened and he slid off, leaning against the horse, clinging to its mane to keep himself on his feet. Fer dismounted on the other side. Her quivering legs held her for a moment, and then she fell onto the snowy ground.

  Catching her breath, she got shakily to her feet, dusted snow off her jeans, and regarded Rook across the horse’s back. He stood with his head lowered, his fingers entwined in the mane. “Are you all right?” she asked. A gust of steam came out with her words; the air was icy cold.

  He didn’t answer.

  Fer reached out to touch a wet patch on his shirtsleeve. Her fingers came away red with blood.

  He jerked away. “Leave it,” he growled. He raised his head. His face was chalky white, but his yellow eyes were fierce.

  She held up her hand to show him the blood. “Rook, Grand-Jane made me learn a bunch of different healing spells,” she said. She didn’t have Grand-Jane’s power or knowledge, but her spells might help a little, especially if she could find her backpack and use the magical herbs she had in there. “I can help.”

  “You’ve helped enough already,” Rook muttered. “Just leave me alone.”

  “If I’d left you alone up there,” Fer pointed, “you would have fallen off the horse.” She looked up. The sky was flushed with pink. Sunrise. So they’d ridden all night. “What if you had fallen off during the ride, Rook?”

  He rested his forehead against the horse’s sweating flank and didn’t answer.

  “Well?” Fer asked. “What?”

  “I would’ve turned to dust,” he mumbled without looking up.

  Fer nodded. So she’d saved his life. A second time.

  Chapter Nine

  Fer opened her mouth to ask Rook, for the third time, what was the matter with him—besides the wolf bites, because it wasn’t just that—when the horse snorted and raised its head. Fer looked to see what had disturbed it.

  Across the field, emerging from a snow-covered pine forest, was the Lady’s retinue. They trotted, plumes of steam coming from the noses of the mounts, their hooves kicking up clots of snow. The retinue halted, milling around. The bear shambled off among the trees, followed by the panther and a few of the deer. Some of the Lady’s people jumped off the horses and deer and goats they’d been riding; others, on horseback, clustered around the Lady as if receiving orders, and then rode into the forest. The wagons pulled up and things were flung out, and almost immediately a tent started to go up.

  Fer bent and wiped Rook’s blood off her hand, onto the snow. “Are you coming?” she asked.

  Rook nodded. “The Lady will want to see you.”

  “I want to see her, too,” Fer said. It was time to get some answers about her mother and father, and about who she really was. The Lady had answers.

  After slogging across the field, Fer found her blue tent, just inside the forest next to a few paper-white birch trees bent low under their load of snow. Rook trudged off to look after the horse—and himself, too, she hoped—and she ducked inside. The snow had been cleared off the patch of ground where the tent had been set up, and the blue-green fish carpet laid down. Other carpets had been hung against the walls, to keep the cold air out, Fer guessed. A fire burned in a brazier in the corner, next to the trunk. The camp bed had a few more coverlets layered on it and, Fer was glad to see, her backpack.

  She sat down with a sigh on the bed and peeled the wet sneakers and socks off her feet, which were red with cold. With the carpets on the walls shutting out the morning light, the tent felt like a cave. She lay back on the bed. They’d ridden all night. All night. She shook her head wonderingly. She’d ridden a horse that had flown through the sky and brought her from the freshness of spring into the depths of winter. She closed her eyes, feeling again the rush of icy wind around her, seeing the brilliant stars shoot past.

  When she woke up, the fire in the brazier had burned down to a couple of red coals, and the tent was dark. She shivered. She’d slept the entire day away. She sat up and stretched, her shoulders stiff from clinging to the horse’s mane during the wild ride.

  Her stomach growled.

  If somebody wasn’t going to bring her something to eat, she’d have to go find it. She bent over and rummaged in her backpack for the other pair of socks that Grand-Jane had packed. There they were, knitted from warm, red wool. Fer started to pull one on when she caught a whiff of a dusty-sweet smell, and something poked her foot. Reaching into the sock, she pulled out a sprig of dried lavender.

  Even in the dim tent, Fer could see the purple flowers clustered like tiny bells at the end of the stalk. Grand-Jane had harvested this herself on a summer morning after three days of clear weather, gathering the bees about her, waiting for the dew to dry before cutting the lavender. She’d hung it up in a bundle in the stillroom until it had dried. And then she’d put this sprig into Fer’s sock drawer. Lavender for protection and peace.

  Suddenly Fer felt very, very far away from Grand-Jane and their little house at the end of the rutted driveway. How much time had passed in her own world since she’d jumped into the pool? She took a shaky breath. Had spring come yet back home? Had Grand-Jane dug up the herb garden? Were the bees waking up in their hives? She closed her eyes, imagining Grand-Jane in her warm, red-and-yellow kitchen, drinking a cup of herb tea at the table, stirring in a spoonful of honey.

  From outside came the crunch of footsteps on snow; as Fer opened her eyes, the tent flap lifted and a dark shadow ducked inside, bringing with it a gust of icy-cold air.

  Fer tucked the sprig of lavender into her patch-jacket pocket, next to the protective spell-bag. “Is that you, Rook?” she asked, and started pulling on her socks and sneakers.

  “It is,” his rough voice answered. “The Lady invites you to join her for the evening meal.”

  So formal. Fer got to her feet and straightened her patch-jacket. She examined Rook, squinting to see him better in the dim light. He looked as formal as he sounded, wearing his black uniform coat with the Lady’s black feather pinned to the sleeve. He looked better than he had before, not as pale.

  Fer stepped out of the tent and caught
her breath. The Lady’s encampment had been set up just inside the forest among the pine trees. Lanterns hung from the tree branches, and the snow glimmered pink in their light. Paths had been tramped down in the deep snow, leading from one brightly colored tent to the next. It was lovely.

  Still, something about it felt not quite right. Fer paused and cocked her head, as if she might be able to hear something wrong. The winter felt like it was . . . waiting for something. The hard nubbles of tree buds should be swelling with springtime. Icicles should be dripping in a warming breeze. But all was still and icy cold. Winter had overstayed its time in this land.

  Fer shook her head, trying to shake away the feeling of wrongness. Her breath steaming in the cold, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets, Fer followed Rook along the paths to the Lady’s tent.

  Two wolf-guards waited out front. They nudged each other as Fer and Rook approached, but let them pass inside without comment. In the tent, the Lady waited at a folding table set for two with plates carved out of dark wood. On the back of one of the chairs perched a crow, its black feathers gleaming in the candlelight.

  As Fer and Rook entered, the Lady rose to her feet. Fer stared at her. She could almost see the Lady glowing with beauty. Just like her father’s letter had described when he saw her mother. Did the Lady have the thing her father had mentioned—a glamorie? The Lady embraced her and bent to kiss her on her forehead, as she’d done in the moonlit clearing at the end of the stag hunt. Fer shivered and she felt something drop over her like a net made of ice crystals. Was it the glamorie? The questions she’d been wanting to ask melted away.

  “Gwynnefar,” the Lady said. She examined Fer with eyes that seemed like the midnight sky, full of stars. “That is a motley coat you wear. I will send you something better. And I see you’ve lost your black feather.”

  Fer ran her hands over her head. During the ride, her braid had loosened, and bits of flyaway hair stuck out. The black feather was missing from the end of the braid.

  The Lady nodded at Rook, who stood near the door. “Dinner now, Robin.” Rook bowed and went out of the tent. “Come and sit down, Gwynnefar,” she said, pointing to the table. She sat down, and the crow fluttered up to perch on her shoulder.

  Trying not to stare too hard at the Lady’s pale, flawless face, Fer sat. The tent was snug and warm, with carpets on the walls just like her own tent, but the colors were green and gold, the colors of spring. “Is Rook going to eat dinner with us?” she asked.

  The Lady raised her eyebrows. “I heard you like to ask questions.”

  Fer nodded. “That’s because I have a lot of them.” Mostly she wanted to know what had happened to her father and her mother. And about the stag hunt.

  “Well,” the Lady said, “I will answer one question now. I expect you want to know who I am and what my purpose is.”

  That hadn’t been what Fer was going to ask. Still, she did want to know the answer. She nodded.

  “Then I shall answer,” the Lady said, as if giving Fer a present. “Each part of this land and its people is ruled by a different Lord or Lady. The Lord or Lady’s people swear him or her an oath of service, and in turn, she rules them. I am the Lady of the place where the Way that you opened is located. I travel from one land to another to bring the spring to those places because I alone, of all the Lords and Ladies, have that power.”

  Fer opened her mouth to ask Why do you have that power, and nobody else? but before she could get out the question, Rook came back into the tent followed by Twig, or the other girl who looked like Twig, who carried a tray full of food. While the girl held the tray, Rook unloaded the food onto the table; the girl left and Rook went to stand by the tent flap.

  The Lady placed a whole cooked fish on Fer’s plate, then added bread and butter and a little pile of stewed apples. On her shoulder, the crow cocked its head and fixed Fer with a bright-eyed stare.

  Just like Grand-Jane, Fer was a vegetarian. She pushed the silver-scaled fish aside with her fork and took a bite of the apples. They’d been cooked in honey. Sweet. Fer took another bite, still gazing at the Lady.

  “Eat your fish,” the Lady ordered.

  As ordered, Fer took a bite of fish. It tasted salty and gluey on her tongue. No. Wait. She wrenched her gaze away from the Lady and looked down at the fish on her plate; its death-frosted eye stared back at her. She couldn’t believe she had taken a bite. She struggled to remember what she’d come here for. Clearly the Lady didn’t want her to ask questions, but she would do it anyway.

  Keeping her eye on the dead fish’s eye, Fer said slowly, “I have another question. What happened to my mother and father?”

  The Lady didn’t answer.

  Taking a deep breath, Fer asked a second time. “What happened to my parents?”

  More silence from the Lady.

  If she asked a third time, the Lady had to answer—that was the rule, Grand-Jane had said. She risked a glance at the Lady, and she caught a quick glimpse as a shadow crossed her face. For a second the Lady looked different, as if her pale face was a mask cut out of paper, with some wild, black creature peering out of the dark eyeholes. Fer opened her mouth to ask her question the third time.

  “Do not dare to compel an answer from me,” the Lady said, her voice a harsh croak.

  Fer shivered. The feeling of wrongness twisted in her stomach again.

  Then the Lady waved her hand, as if she was adjusting the mask, and she shone with beauty again. The glamorie—it had to be. She cleared her throat. “But I will tell you about your father and mother, Gwynnefar,” she said at last. “It is a sad story. I, ah, do not like to talk about it. Are you certain you wish to hear it?”

  “Of course I do,” Fer said firmly. “It’s one of the reasons I came here.”

  “If you insist.” The Lady nodded gracefully. “It happened long ago, just after you were born. As you know, your father, Owen, was a human. Your mother was my most trusted ally, my huntress. One night she went out hunting with bow and arrow, and—I do not know how it happened, but she shot Owen by mistake, killing him. In remorse, she cast herself into a freezing lake and died.”

  Fer stared at the Lady. That wasn’t the whole story. It couldn’t be. Her father’s letter had made it clear that he and her mother had been fighting against something. Laurelin couldn’t have killed him after that, even by accident.

  She closed her eyes and saw the lovely young woman step out of the moon-pool, and this time she imagined Owen with her, just like in the photograph, tall and a little awkward looking. Neither of them much older than she was now. In her heart she felt a sharp pain, missing them, even though she’d never known them. “I wish I’d met them,” she whispered.

  “I am sure you do,” the Lady said. Then she went on quickly. “The question now is, what are we to do with you now that you are here?”

  Fer blinked. Since she had come to this place, she’d felt the land calling to her, trying to tell her something. “I think—” Fer began, then hesitated.

  The Lady cocked her head, listening, just like one of her black crows.

  “There’s something I’m supposed to do here,” Fer said slowly.

  “Of course there is something you must do, Gwynnefar,” the Lady said. “You are to serve me, as your mother did.”

  The Lady smiled, the glamorie glistened again, and Fer’s doubts melted away. “Serve you, yes, Lady,” Fer agreed, looking into the Lady’s eyes. Yes, she would serve the Lady, just as her mother had done.

  Across the table from her, the Lady’s eyes sparkled. “Good. Your mother was a warrior, as I am, and so are you meant to be. I have much to teach you, and I am certain you will learn fast. We will start with riding.” She shot Rook a glance, and then looked back at Fer. “I even have a present for you. A horse. The one that carried you during the ride.”

  By the tent flap, Rook stiffened. His mouth opened, as if he was about to protest, but then his face went blank and he closed it again.

  The Lady glance
d at him. “Something to say, Robin?”

  He shook his head.

  “Good,” the Lady said. She got to her feet and went to a trunk, the twin of the one in Fer’s tent. Opening the lid, she took out a small box made of pale wood and gave it a little shake. It made a rattling sound. With a half smile on her face, she set the box aside, then pulled out what looked to Fer like a stick about as long as her arm.

  “The horse is named Phouka,” the Lady said. She held the stick out to Fer, who took it. No, not a stick, a short whip, stiff and made of braided leather. “Phouka is not malicious,” the Lady went on, “but he can be tricksy. A few touches with the whip will teach him manners.” She turned and reached back into the trunk. “And this,” she said, pulling out another black feather, like the one she’d given Fer before.

  Fer took it.

  “Try not to lose it, Gwynnefar,” the Lady said.

  There was silence for a moment. Fer stared up into the Lady’s mirror-silver eyes. She blinked and saw the beautiful Lady’s face and, behind it, a frightening, empty-eyed face. Her head spun.

  The Lady put her hands on Fer’s shoulders, steadying her. “I have just given you four presents, Gwynnefar. Surely you have been taught how to behave properly.”

  Fer felt a headache building behind her eyes. Four presents? The horse named Phouka, the feather, the whip and . . . ? Oh, the answer to a question, even though it wasn’t one she had asked. “Thank you,” Fer said.

  “Very good.” The Lady turned Fer and pushed her toward the tent flap. “I have some things to see to. Robin will make sure you get back to your tent safely.”

  A few steps and Fer found herself outside the Lady’s tent, Rook beside her. She blinked, feeling as though she’d just woken up from a dream.